


Salt and Burn (and Blood Loss)

by todisturbtheuniverse



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/F, Flirting, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 17:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2033268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/todisturbtheuniverse/pseuds/todisturbtheuniverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke and Bethany are on a routine hunt, but when the spirit gets the jump on them, Isabela swoops in to save the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Salt and Burn (and Blood Loss)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jillyfae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/gifts).



> Prompted by faejilly on Tumblr: Isabela/Hawke SPN Hunters.

"Please don’t worry about me, Sister."

Hawke stared straight ahead, drumming her fingers on the wheel, even though the weight of Bethany’s gaze begged her to turn. “I can’t help it. This seems dangerous.”

"Useful, though," Bethany cajoled. "You have to admit that much."

It was, though Hawke didn’t  _have_  to admit anything—at least, not out loud. Their last scrape had been bad. The demons loose on Earth were not fucking around anymore.

But Bethany had gotten them out—eyes filmed over black, blood trickling from her nose, she had choked five monsters out of their unwilling hosts and sent them straight back to hell, by the looks of the fires that started below them.

And the hosts had lived. That was something, wasn’t it? It gave Hawke the shivers, but they’d never made such easy work of saving anyone from a possession before.

"Alright," she conceded. "It was sort of cool. And we wouldn’t have gotten out alive without you."

Bethany flashed a relieved smile.

“ _But_ , this is a routine haunting. No funny business. Salt and burn. No need for theatrics.”

Bethany rolled her eyes. “In our line of work,  _everything_ is theatrics.”

They stepped out of the car. Hawke patted the roof twice, for luck, and went to the trunk. They retrieved shotguns and salt rounds; Hawke took the more powerful weapon, but Bethany took the pack that carried the real punch: containers of lighter fluid and boxes of salt. They both picked up a shovel and set off around the abandoned farmhouse.

The back of Hawke’s neck prickled. By the firm set of Bethany’s mouth, she felt just as unnerved. It didn’t matter how long they’d been doing this. The job stayed spooky, and it got worse with every case.

It didn’t help that they’d lost family members to this: Mother, when they were so young that Bethany didn’t remember her; Father, a few years ago; and freshest of all, Carver, just last year. The last had been worst on Bethany, who’d been withdrawn and taciturn ever since. And now this…condition, of hers. The headaches, the visions, the exorcisms that didn’t involve chanting in Latin.

Hawke didn’t know what to make of it, but she didn’t like it one bit. She wasn’t about to lose her last family member to this shit.

They reached the grave, and Hawke broke the dirt first while Bethany stood guard. It was their tried-and-true strategy; Hawke dug as hard as she could, as quickly as she could, and if the spirit showed up to put up one last fight, Bethany would take over the digging while Hawke defended.

It had barely been ten minutes—and Hawke was only halfway into the grave, nowhere near breaking the casket—when Bethany said, voice full of warning, “Marian.” Her shotgun went off not long after, announcing the spirit’s arrival.

Hawke dropped the shovel and heaved herself out of the hole. Bethany hopped down. Hawke slung the shotgun from her back and, bracing it against her shoulder, scanned their surroundings.

The wail came from her right. She didn’t get a good look at the ghost before she turned and fired, and it dissolved with a screech that clawed her eardrums. They had a moment of blessed silence before the ghost reappeared; she turned again, fired again.

The adrenaline sang in her ears. Nervous as the job made her, she loved this: the fight, the kiss of the shotgun against her shoulder. She couldn’t imagine doing anything else, unimpressive as the paycheck might be. Sure, she was homeless, more acquainted with her beloved Impala and hundreds of hotel rooms than she’d ever been with a house, but when she arrived on the field and stared down the things that went bump in the night, she was home.

At least, until the spirit got the jump on her and tossed her against the headstone.

Her head hit with a sickening  _thud_ , but she didn’t let go of her gun. She didn’t feel strong enough to get up, but she did feel strong enough to brace her weapon against her shoulder and watch, waiting for the spirit to reappear.

"Marian?" Bethany called, her voice strained.

Hawke tried to move, but the world spun when she attempted to push to her feet. “I’m down,” she acknowledged, “but I can still aim from the ground. Keep digging, I’ll cover you.”

The spirit reappeared, mouth wrenched wide in an twisted cry, and Hawke’s shot went wide. Fumbling, she dug a few salt rounds out of her pocket and reloaded; the ghost leapt closer, still babbling.

"I’ll stop you," he sobbed. "You won’t, you won’t—"

"I will," a cheerful voice interjected, far to Hawke’s right, and a shot that wasn’t hers rang out.

The spirit collapsed, stunned for the moment. Hawke turned her head. It might have been the concussion, but her mouth went dry.

The other hunter was stunning. She wore tight jeans, boots that went on for ages, a billowing white blouse that was tucked loosely into her belt, a blue bandana that kept her dark hair off her face. Her coppery eyes found Hawke, braced against the headstone, and she smiled brightly.

"Hello, Hawke. I see I’m just in time."

"Marian?" Bethany called again.

"Keep digging, we’re fine." She eyed the newcomer, shotgun still braced to her shoulder, not entirely convinced she shouldn’t shoot. Hunters were not, as a rule, particularly trustworthy; she and Bethany generally steered clear of them. Beautiful or not, this woman was dangerous. "How do you know my name?"

Her eyes crinkled at the corners, mischief sparking in her gaze. “You have to have been living under a rock these last few years not to have heard of the great and terrible Hawke.” The spirit reappeared, and she shot it back casually, without even glancing its way, and continued as though they hadn’t been interrupted. “I didn’t realize you were working this case until my last stop mentioned that an Impala was driving this way. Gorgeous car.”

"Yes, well." Hawke shifted. "You still have me at a disadvantage."

"Isabela, at your service." She gave a little bow. "You may have heard of me as ‘the Captain.’"

The ghost sputtered back to life, only a foot to Isabela’s left, and Hawke shot without thinking, spraying salt. Not a drop of it touched the infamous Captain, who smirked.

"Nice shot."

"Thanks." Hawke raised her voice. "Bethany, are we ready to salt and burn yet? I think I’m losing a lot of blood."

"We’re there." The crack of wood beneath a shovel proved that. "Toss it down."

"We have a guest," Hawke said, her eyes fixed on Isabela. "I’m slightly…incapacitated…so she’s going to throw down the supplies. I think I can manage watching her back."

Isabela chuckled, completely at ease. “I’ll bet.”

And then she  _winked_ , and Hawke was gone. She’d heard rumors of the Captain, that much was true—and she was not a woman to trifle with—but there was something about her playful nature, so at odds with the idle talk, that drew Hawke in.

The ghost dealt with, Bethany helped Hawke limp back to the car, then propped her against the passenger side and went around the hood to get behind the wheel.

"So," Hawke said, a little light-headed from the blow to the head. "What’s an appropriate reward for saving my ass?"

Isabela smiled wolfishly, as though she’d been waiting for the question. “Come by The Hanged Man later. I’m staying in room 107 until Thursday.” Her eyes cast down, lingering on Hawke’s body, and she felt the blood rush to her neck. “I’m sure adequate repayment will occur to me by then.”

She walked to her car, hips swinging, and Hawke grinned a foolish grin before collapsing into the Impala.

"Be careful," Bethany warned, turning the key in the ignition. "You’ve heard the same rumors I have."

"It’s nothing  _serious_ ,” Hawke scoffed. “A woman has needs, Bethany.”

She made a face. “Ugh. Gross, Marian.”

Hawke laughed. “Blame the blood loss.”

She didn’t make a habit of falling into bed with strangers, but she didn’t often cross paths with anyone who was up for it. People got the right vibe from her, one that warned them away; she was a dangerous woman living a dangerous life, one that had left her with her share of visible scars.

But Isabela understood that—liked that, even—and Hawke would jump at the chance while she had it. After Thursday, it was unlikely she’d ever see the Captain again.

Besides, she always repaid her debts.


End file.
